Robert, apparently unperturbed by desire, made a hearty breakfast, touched his lips with his napkin, held out his fingers to be washed and patted dry by the server and then rose from the table.
‘I must take my leave of you, Your Grace.’
She was amazed, and she could not hide it. ‘You’re going so early?’
‘I am to meet a few men in the tilt yard, we are practising for the joust of the roses. You would not want me unhorsed in the first tilt.’
‘No, but I thought you would sit with me for the rest of the morning.’
He hesitated. ‘Whatever you command.’
She frowned. ‘I would not keep you from your horse, Sir Robert.’
He took her hand and bowed over it.
‘You were not so quick to let me go when we were together in your rooms at Kew,’ she whispered to him as she had him close.
‘You wanted me then as a woman wants a man, and that is how I want to come to you,’ he said, as fast as a striking snake. ‘But since then you have summoned me as a courtier and a queen. If that is what you want, I am at your service too, Your Grace. Always. Of course.’
It was like a game of chess, he saw her turn her head and puzzle how she could outwit him.
‘But I will always be queen,’ she said. ‘You will always be my courtier.’
‘I would want nothing less,’ he said, and then he whispered, so she had to lean forward to hear him, ‘but I long for so much more, Elizabeth.’
She could smell the clean male scent of him and he felt her hand tremble in his. It took an effort for her to make herself move away, sit back in her chair and let him go. He knew what it cost her, he had known women before who could not bear to lose a moment of his touch. He smiled at her, his dark, saturnine, knowing smile, and then bowed low, and went towards the door.
‘Whatever you command, you know you will always be queen of my heart.’ He bowed again, his cloak swirled from his shoulders as he turned and he was gone.
Elizabeth let him go, but she could not settle without him. She called for her lute and she tried to play but she had no patience for it, and when a string broke she could not even be troubled to retune it. She stood at her writing table and read the memoranda that Cecil had sent her but his grave words of warning about Scotland made no sense. She knew that there was much that she should do, that the situation with the currency was desperate, and that the threat to Scotland and to England was a real and pressing one, the French king was on his deathbed and once he died then the safety of England died too; but she could not think. She put her hand to her head and cried: ‘I have a fever! A fever!’
At once they were all over her, the ladies fluttered around her, Kat Ashley was called and Blanche Parry. She was put to bed, she turned from their attentions, she could bear no-one to touch her. ‘Close the shutters, the light burns my eyes!’ she exclaimed.
They would send for physicians. ‘I will see no-one,’ she said.
They would prepare a cooling draught, a soothing draught, a sleeping draught. ‘I want nothing!’ she almost screamed with her irritation. ‘Just go! I want no-one to watch me. I don’t even want anyone outside my door. Wait in my presence chamber, I don’t even want anyone in my privy chamber. I shall sleep. I must not be disturbed.’
Like a troubled dovecote they fluttered out as they were bid, and went to the presence chamber to discuss her. In her bedchamber, through two closed doors, Elizabeth could still hear their concerned murmur and she turned her hot face to the pillow, wrapped her arms around her own slim body, and held herself tight.
Sir Robert, riding slowly up and down the line of the tilt yard, made his horse wheel at the bottom, and then took the line again. They had been doing the exercise for more than an hour. Everything depended on the horse’s willingness to ride a straight line, even though another horse, a warhorse, with a knight in full armour on its back, his lance down, was thundering from the other end, only a flimsy barrier between the two creatures. Sir Robert’s horse must not swerve, not even drift aside, it must hold its line even when Sir Robert, lowering his own lance, was one-handed on the reins, it must hold to the line even if he rocked in the saddle from a blow, and all but let it go.
Robert wheeled, turned, did the line at a trot, wheeled, did the line again at full gallop. His horse was blowing when he pulled it up, a dark patina of sweat marking its neck. He wheeled it round and raced down the line once more.
A ripple of clapping came from the entrance to the yard. A serving girl was standing at the entrance where the riders came in and out, a shawl around her shoulders, a mobcap becomingly perched on her head, a lock of red hair showing, her face pale, her eyes black.
‘Elizabeth,’ he said in quiet triumph, as he recognised her, and rode towards her. He pulled up the horse and dropped down from the saddle.
He waited.
She nipped her lip, she looked down, looked up again. He saw her gaze dart from his linen shirt where his sweat was darkening the cloth at his chest and on his back, to his tight riding breeches and his polished leather riding boots. He saw her nostrils flare as she took in the scent of him, her eyes narrow as she looked up at him again, at his dark head silhouetted against the bright morning sky.
‘Robert,’ she breathed.
‘Yes, my love?’
‘I have come to you. I can be away from my rooms for no more than an hour.’
‘Then let us not waste one moment,’ he said simply and tossed the reins of his warhorse to his squire. ‘Put your shawl over your head,’ he said softly, and slid his arm around her waist, leading her, not to the palace, but to his private rooms over the stables. There was a small gated entrance from the garden, he opened the door and led her up the stairs.
In Robert’s apartments, Elizabeth dropped the shawl and looked around. His chamber was a big room with two tall windows, the walls of dark linenfold panelling. The plans for the next day’s tournament were spread out on the table, his desk was littered with business papers from the stables. She looked towards the door that was behind the desk, the door to his bedchamber.
‘Yes, come,’ he said, following her gaze, and led her through the door into his chamber.
A handsome four-poster bed took up most of the room, a priedieu in the corner, a shelf with a small collection of books, a lute. His plumed hat was on the bed, his cloak on the back of the door.
‘No-one will come in?’ she asked him breathlessly.
‘No-one,’ he assured her, and then shut the door and slid the heavy iron bolt.
He turned to her. She was trembling with anticipation, fear and mounting desire.
‘I cannot have a child,’ she specified.
He nodded. ‘I know. I will take care of that.’
Still she looked anxious. ‘How can you be sure?’
He reached into the inner pocket of his doublet and drew out a prophylactic, made of sheep’s bladder sewn with tiny stitches and trimmed with ribbons. ‘This will keep you safe.’
Torn between nerves and curiosity, she giggled. ‘What is it? How does it work?’
‘Like armour. You must be my squire and put it on me.’
‘I cannot be bruised where my women might see.’
He smiled. ‘I will not leave so much as a print of my lips on you. But inside, Elizabeth, you will burn up, I promise.’
‘I am a little afraid.’
‘My Elizabeth,’ he said softly, and stepped towards her, and took off the mobcap. ‘Come to me, my love.’
Her mass of red hair tumbled about her shoulders. Robert took a handful of the locks and kissed them, then, as she turned her entranced face towards him, kissed her full on the mouth. ‘My Elizabeth, at last,’ he said again.
Within moments she was in a dream of sensuality. He had always imagined that she would be responsive but under his skilled hands she stretched like a cat, revelling in pleasure. She was wanton: no hint of shame as she stripped to her skin and laid on his bed and reached out her arms for him. As his che
st pressed against her face he smiled to find her feverish with desire, but then lost his own awareness in the rise of his feelings. He wanted to touch every inch of her skin, to kiss every fingertip, every dimple, every crevice of her body. He moved her one way and then another, touching, tasting, licking, probing, until she cried out loud that she must, she must have him, and then at last he allowed himself to enter her and watched her eyelids flicker closed and her rosy lips smile.
It was Sunday. The Hyde family, Lizzie Oddingsell, Lady Dudley and all the Hyde servants were seated in a block in the parish church, the Hyde family and their guests in their high-walled pew, the servants arranged in strict order of precedence behind them, the women first, the men behind.
Amy was on her knees, her eyes fixed on Father Wilson as he held the Host towards them, preparing the communion in full sight of the congregation, in obedience to the new directive, though no bishop in the country had agreed, and most of them were either in the Tower or the Fleet prison. Oxford’s own Bishop Thomas had escaped to Rome before they could arrest him, and the see was vacant. No-one would come forward to fill it. No true man of God would serve in Elizabeth’s heretical church.
Amy’s gaze was entranced, her lips silently moved as she watched him bless the Host, and then bid them come to take communion.
Like a sleeper in a dream she walked forward with the others and bent her head. The wafer was cloying on her tongue as she closed her eyes and knew that she was sharing in the very body of the living Christ, a miracle that no-one could deny or explain. She returned to her pew and bent her head again. She whispered her prayer: ‘Lord God, send him back to me. Save him from the sin of ambition and from the sin that is that woman, and send him back to me.’
After the service was over Father Wilson bade farewell to his parishioners at the lych gate. Amy took his hand and spoke quietly to him, for his ears only.
‘Father, I would confess, and celebrate Mass in the proper way.’
He recoiled and glanced around at the Hydes. No-one but him had heard Amy’s whispered request.
‘You know it is forbidden now,’ he said quietly. ‘I can hear your confession but I have to pray in English.’
‘I cannot feel free from my sin without attending Mass in the old way,’ Amy said.
He patted her hand. ‘Daughter, is this true to your heart?’
‘Father, truly, I am most in need of grace.’
‘Come to the church on Wednesday evening, at five o’clock,’ he told her. ‘But tell no-one else. Just say you are coming to pray on your own. Take care not to betray us by accident. This is a life and death matter now, Lady Dudley, not even your husband must know.’
‘It is his sin that I must atone for,’ she said dully. ‘As well as my own in failing him.’
He checked at the pain in the young woman’s face. ‘Ah, Lady Dudley, you cannot have failed him,’ he exclaimed, speaking more as a man than a priest, prompted by pity.
‘I must have done,’ she said sadly. ‘And many times. For he has gone from me, Father, and I don’t know how to live without him. Only God can restore him, only God can restore me, only God can restore us to each other, if he can forgive me for my failures as a wife.’
The priest bowed and kissed her hand, wishing that he could do more. He looked around. Mrs Oddingsell was nearby, she came up and took Amy’s arm.
‘Let’s walk home now,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It will be too hot to go out later.’
It was the fifteenth of July, the day of the tournament, and all Elizabeth’s court could think of was the clothes they would wear, the arrangements for the jousting, the roses they would carry, the songs they would sing, the dances they would dance, the hearts they would break. All Cecil could think of was his latest letter from Throckmorton in Paris.
July 9th
He is failing fast, I expect to hear of his death any day. I will send to you the moment I hear. Francis II will be King of France, and it is certain that Mary will style herself Queen of France, Scotland, and England, my intelligencer has seen the announcement that the clerks are drawing up. With the wealth of France and the generalship of the Guise family, with Scotland as their Trojan horse, they will be unstoppable. God help England and God help you, old friend. I think you will be England’s last Secretary of State and all our hopes will lie in ruins.
Cecil translated the letter out of code, and sat with it for a few thoughtful minutes. Then he took the whole transcript to the queen in her privy chamber. She was laughing with her ladies as they prepared their costumes; Laetitia Knollys, in virginal white trimmed with the darkest rose red, was plaiting roses into a circlet for the queen to wear as a crown. Cecil thought that the news he had in the letter in his hand was like a summer storm which can blow up out of nowhere, and strip the petals from roses and destroy a garden in an afternoon.
Elizabeth was wearing a rose-pink gown with white silk slashings on the sleeves, trimmed with silver lace, and a white headdress trimmed with pink and white seed pearls in gorgeous contrast to her copper hair.
She beamed at Cecil’s surprised face and twirled before him. ‘How do I look?’
— Like a bride — Cecil thought in horror. ‘Like a beauty,’ he said quickly. ‘A summertime queen.’
She spread her skirts and bobbed him a curtsey. ‘And who do you favour for the champion?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cecil said distractedly. ‘Your Grace, I know this is a day for pleasure but I have to speak with you, forgive me, but I have to speak with you urgently.’
For a moment she pouted and when she saw his face remained grave, she said, ‘Oh, very well, but not for long, Spirit, for they cannot start without me; and Sir Ro … and the riders will not want to wait in their heavy armour.’
‘Why, who is Sir Ro …?’ Laetitia asked playfully, and the queen giggled and blushed.
Cecil ignored the young woman, and instead drew the queen into the window bay and gave her the letter. ‘It is from Throckmorton,’ he said simply. ‘He warns of the French king’s death. Your Grace, the moment that he dies we are in mortal danger. We should be arming now. We should be ready now. We should have sent funds to the Scottish Protestants already. Give me leave to send money to them now and to start the muster for an English army.’
‘You always say we have no funds,’ she said wilfully.
Carefully, Cecil did not look at the pearls in her ears and the thick rope of pearls at her throat. ‘Princess, we are in the gravest of danger,’ he said.
Elizabeth twitched the letter from his hand and took it to the window to read. ‘When did you have this?’ she asked, her interest sharpening.
‘This very day. It came in code, I have just translated it.’
‘She cannot call herself Queen of England, she agreed to give up her claim in the treaty of Cateau Cambresis.’
‘No, you see, she did not. She agreed nothing. It was the king who made that agreement and the king that signed that treaty is dying. Nothing will stop her ambition now, the new king and his family will only egg her on.’
Elizabeth swore under her breath and turned from the merry court so that no-one could see the darkening of her face. ‘Am I never to be safe?’ she demanded in a savage undertone. ‘Having fought all my life for this throne, do I have to go on fighting for it? Do I have to fear the knife in the shadows and the invasion of my enemies forever? Do I have to fear my own cousin? My own kin?’
‘I am sorry,’ Cecil said steadily. ‘But you will lose your throne and perhaps your life if you do not fight for it. You are in as much danger now as you have ever been.’
She gave a harsh little cry. ‘Cecil, I have been all but charged with treason, I have faced the block, I have faced my own death from assassins. How can I be in more danger now?’
‘Because now you face your death and you face the loss of your inheritance, and you face the end of England,’ he said. ‘Your sister lost us Calais through her folly. Will you lose us England?’
She drew a brea
th. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I see what must be done. Perhaps it will have to be war. I shall talk with you later, Spirit. As soon as the king dies and they show their hand we must be ready for them.’
‘We must,’ he said, delighted at her decision. ‘That is spoken like a prince.’
‘But Sir Robert says that we should prevail upon the Scottish Protestant lords to settle with their regent, Queen Mary. He says that if there is peace in Scotland there can be no excuse for the French to send in men and no reason for them to invade England.’
— Oh, does he? — Cecil thought with scant gratitude for the unsolicited counsel. ‘He may be right, Your Grace; but if he is wrong then we are unprepared for a disaster. And older and wiser heads than Sir Robert’s think we should strike at them now, before they reinforce.’
‘But he cannot go,’ she said.
— I wish I could send him to hell itself — flashed through Cecil’s irritated mind. ‘No, we should send a seasoned commander,’ he said. ‘But first we must send the Scots lords money to maintain the fight against the regent, Mary of Guise. And we must do that at once.’
‘Spain will stand our friend,’ Elizabeth reminded him.
‘So can I send the Protestant lords some funds?’ He pressed her with the main point, the only point.
‘As long as no-one knows it is from me,’ Elizabeth said, her habitual caution uppermost as always. ‘Send them what they need, but I can’t have the French accuse me of arming a rebellion against a queen. I can’t be seen as a traitor.’
Cecil bowed. ‘It shall be done discreetly,’ he promised her, hiding his immense sense of relief.
‘And we may get help from Spain,’ Elizabeth repeated.
‘Only if they believe that you are seriously considering the Archduke Charles.’
‘I am considering him,’ she said emphatically. She handed the letter back into his hand. ‘And after this news, I am considering him with much affection. Trust me for that, Spirit. I am not joking. I know I will have to marry him if it comes to war.’
Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Page 78
